


Muss ich es vernichten, was ich liebe

by Traumfrau



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Crossdressing, Drunken Confessions, Genderfuck, Humiliation, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Songfic, Unrequited(ish) love, consensual dehumanization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traumfrau/pseuds/Traumfrau
Summary: Richard is in love with a woman he can never have. One evening, he has her, and finds that he still is not the one who “has” anything.Songfic, based on “So Happy I Could Die” by Lady Gaga.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Christoph Schneider | Doom, Richard Kruspe/Frau Schneider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	1. Richard

_I love that lavender blonde,  
the way she moves, the way she walks,  
I touch myself, can’t get enough.  
And in the silence of the night,  
through all the tears and all the lies,  
I touch myself and it’s alright._

* * *

Intellectually, I know she is not a woman.

She is Christoph, my friend Christoph, in a dress and a wig.

But the dark, hidden part of me that I don’t share with anyone, not even Till or Joe, seems not to have gotten the memo that this is all an illusion.

Everyone used to give me so much shit about not crawling. I convinced them that it’s a residual ache in my spine from prison and they finally let it drop, let me hide behind Flake’s keyboard as my bandmates crawl on her leash.

Thankfully, I am the least interesting thing on the B-stage in that moment, and nobody notices the crimson slowly moving from my cheeks down my chest. My mouth goes dry and all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, drowning out my monitors, drowning out the crowd.

She is a comical sight, all smeared lipstick and tangled wig, her garish shawl hanging open over her bare chest, which she is not punished for because underneath this all, she is not a woman, and she is allowed to display herself in unbecoming ways.

We differ in our similarities. My soft curves, painted nails and eyes...and yet I am undeniably male beneath it all. She is built like a man, like the soldier she was in her youth, angular, a painted clown making a mockery of femininity.

Women are not the only ones to catch my eye. I question why she unknowingly grasps my undying obedience in her hand, while her alter ego is merely my brother-in-arms, taking up his instrument alongside me in this war against all notions of what is “good” and “proper.”

This is ridiculous. She is ridiculous.

I am ridiculous.

I try to push the word from my mind, and instantly another one takes its place.

 _Pathetic_.

As in, it is pathetic for a grown man to lay alone in the dark, the covers shoved to the foot of the bed as he pretends that his fist is his friend’s mouth.

And yet here I am, my other hand over my own mouth, muffling my begging because she...he... _they_ are on the other side of the wall.


	2. Christoph

_Just give in.  
Don’t give up baby,  
open up your heart and your mind to me.  
Just know when  
that glass is empty,  
that the world is gonna bend, yeah._

* * *

He thinks no one can see through his carefully crafted façade, thinks it stands stronger than the wall from behind which he escaped.

But he has a heart which mirrors the fire from which it was forged, and it is only when he attempts to come off as aloof and disinterested that any of us truly realize how deeply he has been shaken that he would try to dump ice water over the flames.

He avoids my gaze as I sit down beside him, suddenly fascinated by the imperceptible cracks in his nail varnish. I push a bottle into his hand, an anchor to pull him back down out of his own head.

“Who is she?” I ask. Clearly I am on the right track, as his fingers tighten around the glass hard enough that I fear he will end up with shards in his palm.

“Someone I can’t have, and I’d rather not think about.”

It never fails to amaze me how talented he is at shooting himself down before women have a chance to. I glance around the party, and none of them resemble his type. I don’t know what I expected, obviously women immune to the charms of our younger guitarist are not the kind of women who are likely to accept invitations to afterparties.

“Well...if you want to talk about it—“

“I don’t,” he mutters.

Three beers later, he changes his tune.

“Do you really want to know about her, Schneider?” he asks. Before I can respond either way, he has apparently decided that I do.

“She’s like two different women, and I love both of them,” he mumbles. “Sometimes she’s...prim and proper, like a church lady. Not a hair out of place, not a single wrinkle in her skirt...she has this untouchable air about her, and I always feel unworthy. Like I’m going to be cast down into Hell for being arrogant enough to think I can look at her.”

There is a small nagging feeling in the back of my mind that doesn’t like where this seems to be going. But I press on. Either way, I pushed him down this conversational path and now I have to see it through.

“And other times?”

“Her gaze is so cruel, Schneider. Like she despises me. And the sick thing is, I love it. She makes me want to debase myself in the most vile ways for her amusement. I don’t know who the fuck I become when she looks at me, but it isn’t Richard. I’m not even sure it’s human.”

Scheiße.

He doesn’t have to say her name.

I know exactly who this woman is.

The bitch staring at me in the mirror.


	3. Richard, Part II

_Happy in the club with a bottle of red wine,  
_ _stars in our eyes ‘cause we’re having a good time.  
Eh-eh, eh-eh, so happy I could die.  
Be your best friend, yeah, I’ll love you forever,  
up in the clouds, we’ll be higher than ever.  
Eh-eh, eh-eh, so happy I could die, and it’s alright._

* * *

Fuck.

 _FUCK_.

Why did I tell him that? Why did I tell him anything?

He knows.

He knows, and for half a second, I see her haughty, disgusted gaze in his eyes and I want to die. I can’t tell where he ends and she begins, and now he knows...worse yet, _she_ knows, and I suddenly feel like I’m choking and gasping for air in a void. Blackness creeps into the edges of my vision until all I can see is lips pressed into a thin line.

I try to get up, try to escape and salvage the remaining jagged shards of my broken soul, but my head is still swimming and a firm hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me off balance so that I fall back onto the couch.

“Why do you think she would want anything to do with you?”

This is it, this is how I’m going to die.

“I don’t...I mean...I...I...she wouldn’t. I don’t blame her.”

“That’s right. What could she possibly want with someone so pathetic that he _wants_ her to abuse him?”

Correction, I’m already dead. That’s the only explanation for anything that’s happening right now. But I can’t tell if this is Heaven or Hell.

His lips are practically brushing against my ear now. “You don’t deserve to even think of her.”

Every single nerve ending in my body aches and I glance around because I’m sure that everyone can hear my heart thudding out of my chest and the raggedness of my breath. I’m so close to making a mess of my jeans like a pathetic teenage boy...if he says one more word...

“Would you still want to worship her, knowing that even ‘subhuman’ is too good of a word to describe how she sees you?”

Yes.

_Oh...God...yes._

Oh God. Oh God. I’ve got to get out of here.


	4. Frau

_I am as vain as I allow,  
_ _I do my hair, I gloss my eyes,  
_ _I touch myself all through the night.  
_ _And when something falls out of place,  
_ _I take my time, I put it back,  
I touch myself till I’m on track._

* * *

I tuck Christoph into a soft, warm part of my psyche, to protect him from what I’m about to do to his friend. It’s the only such soft spot I’ll allow myself, but as he is kind enough to express this part of himself, to give me life, it’s the least I can do; as it is, he will no doubt be horrified by what I’ve done when he reawakens.

The other one, however...its feelings are of no concern to me.

It has been kneeling silently in the corner for, according to a quick glance at the clock on the wall, two hours and forty-three minutes. I told it when we began, that I was not to be disturbed, and if it made even a single small noise, this would end, and I would never lower myself to being in its presence again.

It needs this. When it is safely locked away in Richard’s subconsciousness, he is too self-assured, trying to convince himself of his own worthiness. But when you strip away the eyeliner, and the nail polish, and the guitar and the swagger and the cocky smile...Richard and I are not so different. We treat it the same way.

I rub my lips together to spread the crimson pigment, before turning my attention back to it. There are tears trickling down its cheeks, but it knows better than to address me. But its need is currently dripping onto the carpet, and that is unacceptable to me.

“Come here.”

It crawls stiffly, its strained muscles protesting as it slowly makes its way across the bedroom floor.

Not good enough.

“Now! How dare you keep me waiting and waste my time?!”

It frantically tries to meet my impossibly high standard, finally kneeling at my feet. I lift one stiletto-clad foot and press the sole against its broad chest. I shove, hard. It crashes onto its side and curls up without so much as a whimper.

Hours pass, this thing twisting pathetically in its bindings. I am sated, it is desperate, and at last, broken. He chokes, leaves himself winded with his heaving sobs, begging for Christoph, and I am cast aside once more.

“Hey...Reesh. It’s over. It’s done. Come back to me. It’s just me.”

“Chris...” he rasps.

“Ja. I’ve got you. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

Grasping blindly for some sort of grounding, he finally manages to cobble together some vague idea of his own identity once more. As he finally begins to relax, I hold a straw to his lips. “Drink.” He tries to gulp down the ice water, clutching desperately at my forearm to prove to himself that she is gone.

It takes four blankets before he stops shivering, and he looks almost childlike, half-asleep and peeking out of his soft cocoon at me.

“This goes to the grave with us. Ja?” he asks with a hint of concern in his voice. I brush his bangs out of his eyes gently and nod before he has a chance to burrow out of reach.

“We never speak of this again,” I agree. “Not even to each other. Tonight never happened. You had a headache and wanted to leave the party, and I came along to make sure you were okay.”

He nods.

“How are you feeling now?” I ask, hopeful for one more confirmation that I have fit his pieces back together properly before he drifts off.

“So happy I could die,” he mumbles.


End file.
